Trial: MoMDE: DOM05061980
by Pheynix
Summary: The war is over, the Light won and now it is the clean up. But the trial of Draco Malfoy, unabashed Death Eater, is going to make headlines
1. When Moon is on the Wave

**Disclaimer**: I am not JKR or Bloomsbury or WB... therefore, one must assume that I do not own or make any profit from writing about the characters they own. I do so for my own benefit - because if I don't the bunnies will drive me insane!!!! 

**Quick A/N** - AU: Book 6 - didn't happen... so we'll just forget that. Dumbledore led the Light vs Voldemort, Draco didn't let anyone into Hogwarts and Snape didn't betray anyone. Harry and his entire year finished all seven years at Hogwarts. All reviews and thoughts are welcome!!

**Warnings**: There will be descriptions of: character death, torture, war and both het and slash relationships... if you don't want to read any of that then don't go any further. If you do, then I take no responsibility for what you read and what you feel... you have been warned!

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"_The war has been long. The damage great and the casualties high. But, the magical community has never been as focused and united as I see it now. I see no division between pure-blood and muggle-born. No vilification of werewolves or others of creature derivation. I see that a new age has dawned for all wizarding kind and I am honoured to have been selected to lead it into this new day."_

_Inauguration speech, Amelia Bones – Minister of Magic, February 12__th__ 2007_

Minister Bones had indeed been correct, the war had been long. Although the wizarding world would only ever date it in the annals of history as being from June 21st 1998 to December 31st 2006, and that Voldemort was finally defeated on the 80th anniversary of Tom Riddle's birth, it had really been going on since the 1970s, and apart from the brief lull that was the 1980s and early 1990s, the wizarding world had been at war for nearly forty years. Voldemort had been making life miserable for others for half of his existence, in an effort to somehow undo the misery that had been the first half of his life. Yet, no matter how long the actual fighting, skirmishing, spying, sabotaging, attacking, pursuing and hunting had gone on for, the clear up seemed to be taking forever.

January 2007 had been concerned with rebuilding the Ministry – a new ministry that was able to cope with the new world that wizards and witches everywhere had awoken to on the 1st of January. New posts had been commissioned, old ones remade or done away with and both had to be filled. Fresh blood and the best of the old had banded together to create a new Ministry of Magic, which – after February – had been helmed by Amelia Bones, Clarence Rigger as Senior Undersecretary to the Minister and Hermione Weasley nee Granger as Junior Undersecretary. By March, all positions in the Ministry were filled – mostly by loyal Order members or others who had proved an unequivocal loyalty to the Light. Kingsley Shacklebolt was now Chief of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and had created a new Auror division. There were now three tiers to it. There was the Wizarding Police Constabulary, under the control of war veteran Seamus Finnegan who, like the muggle version had limited powers and was responsible for the maintenance of law and order. The WPCs were only ever called upon to investigate small crimes, ones which after the war may have seemed insignificant but having an entire division dedicated to ensure that thieves, swindlers and other such miscreants were taken to task was a necessary. Especially with the fact that many had seen the fall of Voldemort as the perfect excuse to go somewhat wild. The WPC was also able to liaise with the Muggle Police Service if the need arose thereby strengthening the ties between the two. After all, the Muggle Police had been very helpful with the war. Then there was the Aurors – not at all revised from the way it had been before the war. Although, now under the leadership of Nymphadora Lupin (still known as Tonks) it was a slightly more colourful office. Lastly though there were the Dark Aurors or the DA. These were the best of the best – the marines of fighting the Dark – and had the authority to use any means necessary to apprehend or stop a Dark practitioner. Case loads for these wizards were small and infinitely complex and it was generally agreed that they would provide protection at major ministerial events and International Confederate meetings. They were also cleared to work for Gringotts.

Arthur Weasley headed up a new department that was concerned with the Death Eaters alone. Known simply as the Death Eater Investigation Department, it was the job of these brave souls to wade through the masses of evidence and information collected by the Aurors or WPC and search for viable Death Eater activity. The department was only temporary but with the war so fresh, the Ministry felt that the people would be more comforted with the idea of an entire independent department ensuring that the war crimes were answered, than if it was simply the Aurors and Wizengamot. Nevertheless, the department employed over fifty talented witches and wizards all under the watchful eyes of Arthur, Blaise Zabini and Mallory Hayday – once again, valuable Order members ensuring that the war was put to rest for good. Ron had suggested that they call it the Death Eater Audit Department or DEAD for short as they all knew that no Death Eater would escape the war without Azkaban or death. He had been quickly vetoed but no one had bothered to correct his claims.

Werewolves and Vampires had been taken off the "Magical Creatures" list – along with Veelas, goblins, elves and centaurs and were now under the classification of "Magical Species". They were given rights according to this new standing, and – more importantly to them – they each had a vote at the General Assembly of the Ministry of Magic. "Magical Creatures" were reclassified as those that couldn't – in anyway or at anytime – be held accountable for there actions or speak for themselves. If Snape hadn't come up with Wolfsbane Potion then the werewolves might have missed out, but now they had the choice and could be held accountable to the law. The Department of Magical Species oversaw all legislation and was, unsurprisingly headed by Remus J Lupin, the only decorated werewolf in history.

Other departments dedicated to muggle interaction and co-operation were still in the final stages of development but everyone was confident that there would never be another Muggle Purge like the one Voldemort had so recently whipped up.

March progressed with the honouring of all the War Heroes. Orders of Merlin – First Class – had been presented to Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, Hermione Weasley and Remus Lupin. All were commended with having "braved a never ending darkness, unwavering in their loyalty to Light and Freedom" and "were a credit to the Wizarding Community and the World of Magic." Molly Weasley had had to move onto a second and then third handkerchief by the time Ron had received his award. Nearly every member of the Order of the Phoenix had been awarded at least a Third Class. Harry and Hermione had both worked hard to ensure that everyone who deserved to be honoured had been but that the awards hadn't lost their meaning. All in all only fifty awards for the defence of the Wizarding world were handed out, despite the fact that many more had played a part. There had been one other award declared, a new award. Called the Phoenix Feather it was a small, palm size feather donated by Fawkes and was an award for "unfailing loyalty, bravery and doing what must be done - no matter the cost, but always aware that there was one". Well, actually that had been unfair of the Ministry, as it turned out that it would be donated by Fawkes when there was someone worthy to collect it, and so far Fawkes had not judged anyone worthy. The crowd at the steps of the Ministry had gone wild when they had heard that, many demanding that Harry be awarded it as he had been the one to strike the killing blow to Voldemort, but Dumbledore had shaken his head, those damnable eyes twinkling with a renewed fire. All he had stated was that when a person worthy of it was found, then it would be relinquished to them.

Of course, that had set the wizarding world alight. The Daily Prophet, the Quibbler, Witch Weekly and even – to Hermione's horror – Transfiguration Today had all run articles written by readers who claimed that they were the ones worthy of the honour. There had been ludicrous feats of bravery listed, with a wizard in the Shetland Isles going so far as to claim that he had been the one to destroy Voldemort, and that it had been his Avada Kedavra that had ended the Dark Lord. Those in the know however knew this to be false. Harry hadn't actually uttered the killing curse, there had been no green light that shot out of the twin wand, no, he hadn't done anything as heroic or epic as that. Instead, he had drawn a circle around himself in the air with his wand. It had shimmered in the winter night – a beautiful gold that sung of home and hearth and heart and had warmed all who had seen it. And then he had said the words that presumably Dumbledore had scratched onto a parchment for him and pressed into his hand after they all hastily fled 12 Grimmauld Place to face Voldemort. He had waited, and delayed – sending nothing other than defensive spells out against the Death Eaters that had gathered against them, simply dawdling and waiting for midnight to roll on. It had taken forever, but eventually his watch had vibrated dully against his wrist and he read from the parchment: "O'er thy heart and brain together hath the word been pass'd--now wither!"

It had been like dawn coming all at once. The golden circle that protected him had flared, growing and glowing brighter and brighter and hotter and pushing all the night's darkness towards Voldemort. There had been no bang, no explosion – nothing remarkable at all... There had just been light and the whisper of the wind and Voldemort lay dead at his feet.

Harry had sworn that he had heard another voice on the wind whilst Hermione demanded to know the spell on the parchment, but when he had handed it to her there had been nothing there. The parchment was as clean and bright as when it had first been made, no longer sweat stained or wrinkled. And then, before any Order member could do anything about it, it had simply crumbled to ash, and once more Harry would swear that he heard a voice – laughing with childish glee – as they watched the crumbled paper float away.

All the Death Eaters had been arrested that night – even Draco Malfoy and Peter Pettigrew who had been absent from the battle but found later at Malfoy Manor. The Manor had been the headquarters of Voldemort's war efforts for well over half the war. It was unplottable, and although that technically meant that its location was only unplottable to cartographers and anyone who didn't know where to find it, it did mean that there were records in the Ministry of how to find such a place. After all, bureaucracy dictated that spells of that magnitude have all the necessary paperwork properly filled out and filed. _Neatly_. Unfortunately though, it would seem that Lucius had worked at the Ministry for far too long, and had removed all evidence of the Manor – and any other Malfoy property from public record. It wasn't until – at the point of the Vanquisher of Voldemort's wand – he was pleasantly pressed for the information that Lucius revealed the location of the Manor. With a further twist of his arm – driving the point of the wand further into his throat – Harry managed to make Lucius drop all the wards to the building. Tonks, Lupin, Charlie Weasley and Morag Fenal had been the ones to bring the final members of Voldemort's Inner Circle to the Ministry. The others were either already imprisoned or dead.

Pettigrew and Malfoy, Draco, were the last Death Eaters to arrive at the holding cells in the deepest part of the Ministry. No one was being sent to the new Azkaban until their trial was concluded. For the time they were held in invisible cages. Ten foot square, the cells were wall-less and bar-less but magic held them in place. They could see one another clearly, but they couldn't communicate – speak, hear or touch – and all they could do was watch as one another waited for their time in the dock. Once a Death Eater left their cell, they never came back. Pettigrew was forced into a cell between Fenrir's two lieutenants, both of whom shared similar inclinations with their former Alpha. Draco was pushed into one well away from his father. On his left was a Death Eater he had never met, and on his right was Cato Rosier – a distant relative and more recent bedmate of his. He noticed with a wry smile that the 'more dangerous' Death Eaters had a cell to themselves, the lesser ones had to share, five or less to a cell, two beds and a few blankets between them. These were the ones who could get away with claiming Imperius had been used on them. These were the ones that weren't seen as a threat. These were the ones whose testimony would probably not result in public execution. Therefore these where the ones who had the small comfort of being able to talk and touch and feel another being. The others couldn't be trusted to have company. They might plot or plan or scheme. It might compromise their trial.

Draco didn't see how that would happen. The Death Eater's were more likely to turn on one another in the faint hope that they might save their own skin. They wouldn't bother scheming with one another – the benefit of the masses didn't outweigh the benefit of the few (or rather the one) anymore. He also didn't find the separation from the other Death Eater's torturous, after all the years of living and existing with these men, it was finally a relief to be separated from them. And, as no magic of any kind could permeate the cells they were in, it was wonderful to finally be free to think. To spend the months thinking of everything and nothing as he waited for his own trail to roll around. As he waited for his time in the dock, his time to tell his side of the story. And he was looking forward to it immensely.

As he waited, he remembered. He remembered the carefree days of his childhood, where his biggest fear had been soiling his robes or forgetting dinner etiquette. Then there was the challenge of school. Fearing that he wouldn't be popular, that he would never play Quidditch for Slytherin or that he would fail all his classes. Then he had faced the annoyance that was Harry Potter as the Gryffindor Seeker, the only one in the school that beat him every time they met. It wasn't until seventh year that Draco finally beat Harry at Quidditch. It had been a hair's breadth between them, and Draco ended up with a broken collar bone for his trouble, but he had reached just that bit further and caught the snitch as he tumbled from his broom. It had been worth all the defeats, just to beat the Golden Boy on their final ever match.

Then he remembered the war and everything that he had seen and done and had done to him. But none of that really affected him. The only memory that seemed to get under his skin these days was that of his arrival at the Ministry the night that Voldemort fell.

Pettigrew had fallen at Harry's feet, begging for the young man to save him as he had done once before. Back when Sirius was alive and he had needed Pettigrew alive to clear his godfather. Now, his godfather was dead, cleared post mortem and vaunted as another of the heroes of the Second Rise of Voldemort. Harry didn't need Pettigrew alive any longer and simply walked passed the bald and simpering man as quickly as possible. But, he hadn't been able to ignore the pathetic little man completely as stubby fingers had curled round his upper arm and tugged desperately.

"Please... Harry please... your father, he wouldn't have... Harry _please!_"

It had been a fast and increasingly high pitched speech that had only served to ignite Harry's famous Gryffindor temper and within seconds Pettigrew found himself pinned to the cold wall that lined the route to the holding cells. White knuckled fists clutched at his dark robes and blazing emerald eyes were all that Pettigrew could see, the emerald darkening as the hero of the wizarding world grew angrier by the second.

"Never, ever, think that you have the right to speak of my father again you pathetic little rat. He was a million times the man you ever could be and for the life of me, I can't understand what he ever saw in you… You are nothing more than a traitor and a coward – you betrayed him to his death. You left Sirius to rot in Azkaban. You stole my blood to raise that creature you bowed to. You are the worst scum of the wizarding world and I will be glad when you get everything that is coming to you."

He remembered watching the furious speech Potter made to Pettigrew with cold eyes. Harry Potter had grown up over the war. There was a time after fifth year when the simple mention of Black would have caused the windows to shatter and the doors to rattle as the Boy Who Lived punched someone's lights out. But, Pettigrew, the very creature that had caused as much pain to Potter's life as Voldemort himself didn't cause any reaction of that. If Draco weren't so good at reading people he would have thought that Potter was simply too disgusted with Wormtail to bother wasting anger on him, but that wasn't the case. He was shaking. The Killer of Voldemort was so angry that his whole body was trembling with the effort. Draco could feel the smile that tugged at his lips – Potter had finally learned to hide his emotions. Rather than screaming at Pettigrew, he was spitting the words out with carefully concealed venom. The boy had grown up – and Draco couldn't help but be impressed.

Wormtail was trembling by the time his robes were released and he was quickly dragged away from Harry before he could do anything to affect his status in these investigations. They may be Death Eaters, but once arrested, they were protected from brutality until their trial – after that…

"You alright mate?"

Draco hadn't really noticed Weasley in the corridor until he spoke. Like the Boy Wonder, the years of war had been both kind and cruel to the other Gryffindor. Both of them had obviously grown out of their adolescent bodies. Their limbs were now long and lined with muscle that was clearly visible under their battle gear, and Kevlar left little to the imagination. Ron was still a good few inches taller than Harry; his hair pulled back into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck was no longer so bright ginger, a darker more auburn shade now that made his blue eyes brighter in the dim of the corridor. He was broader than Harry too, especially across the shoulders but despite the raw physicality of his body, it didn't quite have the power that Harry's did. At just over six foot, the Boy Who Lived was the model pinup for young witches and wizards everywhere. His dark hair seemed even darker and messier but even the untamed locks shone with the innate power that exuded from the young man. He was tanned, his skin a swarthy, healthy hue that spoke of warmth and hot summer days of Quidditch. It was an immediate turn-on for the young man that was forever destined to be nothing more than milk and mercury. Dark rich locks and tawny skin were god like to him – even if he didn't like their owner. Like his friend he was muscled, not overly so but more so than Draco's lean form. Compared to the two Aurors he had tormented in school, Draco seemed waif like and almost frail. He was a whole head shorter than Ron, his eyes would have met Harry's mouth, he wasn't anywhere near as broad and definitely nowhere near as physically strong, but he would bet that of all in the room, it would only be Potter that would challenge him magically. But there was little he could do – wandless and bound as he was. And he wasn't suicidal either.

He had to smile though, there was no way Potter would beat him to a snitch now. He wasn't a Seeker anymore. His frame suited a Chaser better, which was apt given his career choice.

"Fine Ron. Just wish I'd have let Sirius kill him all those years ago – think of what that might have achieved."

"We've been over this Harry, it wasn't your fault – you didn't know that letting that _rat_," the word was spat out with more venom that Potter had mustered before. Spittle shone in the dim light as it flew from his mouth. "Go would bring Vold-… him back."

"I know Ron, I know."

Potter sounded tired, as if he had been having this argument for years. He turned to offer his friend a wry smile and Draco felt his breath catch in his throat. Those eyes. Those damned green eyes hadn't changed at all. In all the years of fighting and killing and god knows what, Potter's green eyes still reflected power. But it wasn't the power that shone from them that made Draco so mad, so furious at the world. It was that after all these years; they were still as innocent as they had been all those years ago in Madam Malkins when Draco had first seen him. Oh Merlin that hurt. How was it that Harry Bloody Potter could go through a whole war, kill Draco's aunt, watch his mother die, kill Voldemort and Morgan knows who else and still remain a bloody innocent? It wasn't fair. He had done everything that had been asked of him, everything that he had needed to do and he felt as though his soul and heart had torn apart and where never going to heal.

Never before had he hated Harry Potter, but now, sitting in this tiny cell with no real human contact and only the memory of keeping company with the men that now surrounded him, he truly hated Harry Potter. Harry, who had everything whilst he had given everything and currently had nothing. He didn't even own the clothes that he was wearing, the black cotton pants and t-shirt, both of which moulded to his body and made it clear that he had no concealed wand or weapon. He guessed that they thought it would insult and degrade the Death Eaters more – that they had to wear muggle clothes; that they weren't considered worthy of wizard robes anymore. Draco wasn't a fool. He had guessed that the Ministry were holding them here in these prison cells in an effort to break them. He had heard the guards in March say that the public had voted that the trials would go from lesser to greater. But he knew that the Ministry thought that the longer the 'bad' ones went without real human contact, the easier they would be to break. Still, they allowed the people to believe that they were acquiescing to public demand. And so the end of March had seen the hearings of the deeds of the deceased Death Eaters. Their lives and actions had been detailed and their killers pardoned. He knew the order it must have gone – Voldemort, Aunt Bella, Mother, Rudolphus, Rabastian, Greyback, Avery, Pansy Parkinson, Terry Boot, Theodore Nott Snr, Travers, Yaxley… their crimes listed and their killers (or perhaps they adopted the more politically correct term of 'executioners'): Potter, Ron Weasley, Fred Weasley, Tonks, Lupin, Snape, Shacklebolt – they were all pardoned and hailed as heroes. He wondered what they would have done about the deaths of Amycus and Gibbon after all, their murderer was still unidentified. They had probably had glossed over them, footnotes in a war where better men had died for less. He also wondered whether they mentioned McNair and Gideon Goyle – both of whom were in the secure unit of St Mungo's… one to many Crucios for their sanity to take… He imagined that if they had been touched on it was only out of respect to Gregory Goyle, who he heard had become quite the proficient healer during the war.

Then there were the hearings of the outer circles of Death Eaters – marked men but without the power or knowledge or favour to be in the Inner Circle. People like Marcus Flint and his father, Tracey Davis, Teddy Nott, Vladimir Krum, Igor Karkaroff, Aubrey, Peregrine and Petrel Parkinson, Dolores Umbridge and other former Ministry puppets. There trials had been held first because the people wanted a spectacle of the _real_ Death Eaters, a spectacle that couldn't occur if there were thirty people awaiting trial. So throughout April and May they had been tried – the Wizengamot split into two so that two trials were held simultaneously. Veritaserum made things much easier and those trials were more of a question and answer session than a real trial. They weren't the big fish… they weren't Malfoys or Rookwoods or Rosiers…

And their trials weren't going to be the Death Eater trials of before. They weren't going to be the personal prosecution of each individual where the claim of Imperius would save them from the stake… oh no, not this time. All of them were going to be tried for war crimes - willful killing, causing great suffering or serious injury to body or health, torture, treatment, unlawful wanton destruction or appropriation of property, taking hostages and depriving them of fair trials. Draco knew how they were going to be tried. The Ministry had gotten smarter over the war years. Charging them all as Death Eaters wouldn't be enough – it would make them martyrs to some and eventually history, written by soft hearted liberals, would see Death Eaters as misguided and misunderstood individuals who had been warped into the delusions of an insane madman and where robbed of any possible escape from him. One day they would be pitied or revered and the Ministry wasn't going to allow that. So they were to be tried as war criminals – not Death Eaters… he doubted that that name would be used in any other form other than to differentiate between the sides of the war.

Wormtail's trial had been first. It was kindest that way. Without Voldemort to protect him, he wasn't surviving well in the world. He had always needed to be around stronger individuals. He had trailed those stronger than him all his life – those more magical or physical or simple stronger than him through the sheer force of their character. But he had none of them left, and those he would have crawled to – Cato, Lucius, Alecto or even Draco himself, they were all being held forcefully away from him. He had cracked midway through March. His trial in May had lasted but a day. According to the Aurors who brought Draco's supper of bread and ham with a glass of water, Pettigrew had only been asked for his name after sipping the Veritaserum, before spilling everything he knew in a five hour monologue of confession and tearful begging. Potter and Lupin had apparently watched with some satisfaction as he had been the first to be sentenced to execution by fire.

The old punishments were always the best and always the ones to turn to in times of trouble.

He guessed that there was some beauty in it – after all, fire cleansed and purified and would allow the wizarding world to rise – phoenix like – from its ashes. There was a haunting beauty about it. A poetic justice. And a morbid irony that the symbol of those that had fought for the freedom of the wizarding world, the phoenix and therefore fire, was going to be the end to their enemies.

Cato had been next. A week later Draco had cried himself to sleep when he had been told that Cato was to join Pettigrew on the pyre. He imagined that Cato would be one of the only people he'd ever cry for. He hadn't fooled himself as to whom and what Cato was. Cato was a killer, and a talented one. But he had only ever been loving and kind and gentle with Draco and he had coaxed him into his bed rather than simply requesting it of Voldemort and taking it. Cato hadn't fucked Draco, if he had dared, Draco would have said that the other young man made love to him. But he doubted that Cato knew how to make anything other than death. But still he wept for him.

That had been a week ago. Jungson was being tried now. There were only five of them left now. Rookwood, Alecto, Mulciber, Draco and his father. Lucius would be tried last – he was the crowning glory after all, he was Voldemort's right hand man, and had the Death Eater's won but Voldemort died, Lucius would have led in his place. He had to be tried last. He suspected that either Alecto or Mulciber would precede him to the docks. This meant that it was either Draco or Rookwood to face the courts next… and how he hoped it was his turn.

He watched as three Aurors approached his cell. They were carrying wash products: a large bowl that was steaming slightly, towels and soaps and fresh clothes. He saw that there were fresh clothes too – just the same, black and tight muggle clothes, no shoes. There was a hair brush and scissors in the hands of one Auror – he guessed that his hair was matted after months of not being washed and brushed properly.

He also guessed that he was next – after all, one had to look one's best for the Daily Prophet when the Ministry reported their next victory. He just hoped that they didn't cut his hair too short, he hated it when it was shorter than shoulder length now… he liked running his fingers through it and feeling it on the back of his neck.

He stood as they entered his cell, and idly he looked at his hands. After all, they were what he was going to be tried for and, if they thought that he had the hands of a murderer, then he would burn.

It was good that his manicure was perfect then…


	2. When the Falling Stars are Shooting

**_A/N to the people who reviewed... Ta eva so! I get so excited when I get a review! Makes me bounce around on my seat! Special thanks have to go to Ganga-Zumba Palmares for her incredibly kind words - especially as I feared all the exposition of the first chapter... Unfortunately I didn't fear it enough to cut it this time but you do get conversations now. So thank you very much xxx_**

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**_When the Falling Stars are Shooting_**

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_20__th__ November1998_

_My Dear Dilwyn,_

_It has been a long time, my old friend, sorry I haven't replied to your letter sooner. I find finding the time to keep up to simple correspondence is more difficult these days than it ever was in the past. Perhaps I underestimated the value of time in my youth. Or perhaps I bury myself in my research and the dogs... You don't have to say anything - I can imagine what you are thinking. I am happy though, I do treasure my work. Though not much is happening at the moment and I have little to say, I thought that I would drop you a little note (though I can't guarantee that I won't waffle on and make it longer), just to keep the lines of communication open. I have lost so many old friends that I fear I must impose on the few I have left. If they'll still have me after all this time._

_I'm sure that you will be pleased to learn that I still keep hounds at the house, some of the old ones are still with me since last we met. But, I am not able to keep them in the manor to which they were accustomed before - they were cooped up all day today. I fear that they need more exercise than they are getting at present, but I am pressed for time, my work commitments have grown since you visited last. Ata, especially, is getting restless (he always was the most active and he hasn't changed). I too miss hunting with them. Perhaps Friday will be an ideal day to take the hounds out. I have a day off for once and nothing else to do so we might join Herne for the night… as long as the weather doesn't change. _

_Brendan is well and sends his love. I think that he misses you though, it is quite the case of hero worship - he hasn't been the same since he met you. Though he hides it well. But unfortunately I fear that I know him far better than he knows himself. I trust that you and Jindrich are keeping well and that he isn't running circles round you. My advice from years of dog training - shorten his leash. Losing such a pedigree would be heartbreaking. And don't worry about getting him ready for showing too soon, a little time and perhaps more exposure to the rings will get him there eventually. I am quite sure that with a Sire and Dam such as he had, his breeding will show through. After all, they were both winners weren't they? I am pleased that you finally broke down and made the commitment though. I am sure that you will get much enjoyment out of it - there is nothing so rewarding as bringing up a winner and dogs are such loyal companions. You won't regret your decision - once he is past his manic puppy stage that is! I hope that you have removed anything valuable from the floor of the house - teeth marks are not attractive!_

_On a really happy and exciting note – Maren's due date is nearing… She is positively glowing! Its her second litter after all. I suspect that soon I will be swimming in puppies, but I wouldn't change anything for the world. I'll let you know when she has the pups - perhaps you'll give in and buy one to keep Jindrich company, dogs shouldn't be kept alone - they are pack creatures after all and although I don't doubt he adores your company, he may need more of his kind around. _

_Take care my friend, don't work too hard and visit when you get the chance, Brendan and myself would be so happy to see you. (And the hounds always love the treats you bring!)_

_With love,_

_Tatsuhiko_

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Harry rose from his seat in the gallery of the Wizengamot chambers. He winced as he felt his spine crack, bones popping back into place. There was also that unmistakable unwelcome tingling as he felt life flooding back into his abused backside. The seats weren't comfortable to sit on for ten minutes, let alone a full day. It was a cruel and unusual punishment for the court spectators and he sorely hoped that the seat in the dock was just as hard. Harder even. The pins and needles started to burn. By Merlin he hated these seats! Especially after six days of them. Six days… That meant tomorrow was the first day of June. He wondered whether they would have the day off – after all, they missed Sunday this week. He hoped they would have the day off. But he wasn't going to hold his breath. There were still five DE trials to go, the worst Death Eaters left, that meant that the trials would only probably get longer. Maybe the Ministry wouldn't want to waste that extra day… but by Merlin he hoped to Hogwarts that they would. His arse hoped that they would.

It wasn't that he hated the trials, he just didn't like them all that much either. Sitting quietly (on seats he was sure Voldemort had to have designed) for hours on end listening to one of the DEID officers question a suspect, going over things that he had already heard before – either during the war when they actually happened or through collecting the information later for the Aurors or in a previous trial was a trial in itself - was awful. It was so incredibly tedious. Scrap that – it was worse than one of Professor Binns' lectures. The sheer boredom of listening to some things over and over again made his brain want to dribble out of his ears and hearing the descriptions of some of the crimes just turned his stomach. He had been through the war, but listening to these men and women describe what they did just made him sick. Every trial made him all the more convinced that there victory had been the only thing acceptible. Yet, despite all the horrors described and the obvious enjoyment that the Death Eaters had taken in their work, the sheer fanaticism with which they spoke, the worst part about the trials was that until now, until the past two cases – Rosier and Jungson – the trials had not brought up anything new. They had only learnt things they already knew. But Rosier and Jungson had given them new information, new ideas, new evidence to check out to make sure that there was nothing left of Voldemort in the world. They brough up things that they hadn't heard before. Rosier had mentioned Malfoy, Draco, more than anyone else had, even though he hadn't been able to tell them what he had been doing, and Jungson spoke more on the work overseas. Although neither defendant had any information of great detail, it had been a relief to hear about some plans that they hadn't heard of before. It made the time past quicker.

It also gave them something to tell the other ministries, to help them get over the effects that the war had had on them. After all Britain wasn' the only country that had been hit by the war. France, Germany, Romania, Italy and Austria were having to clear up too. They just hadn't had the worst of it. They hadn't seen any real fighting, but they had felt the extent of Voldemort's power. Hundreds had fled England for the safety of the continent, only to find that the Death Eaters had cells in many countries, recruiting more to their cause and finding ways to bring the war in England to a satisfactory end. An end that involved the deaths of Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape. And hundreds of muggle-born and half-blood witches and wizards. Clearing up the damage done by the war was a long and far reaching process and all the information that they could get out of the Death Eaters was critical. It made the clean up faster. It meant that they knew where to hunt, what to look for, and inevitably, it meant that when the last Death Eater was tied to the stake alongside his brothers, it would really be over. For good.

It was still long and boring though.

If anybody had told him how slow time could pass when you were locked in a large room listening to psychopaths and manics talking about how their master had tried to take over the world and that it was only a matter of time before someone actually managed it, he would never had believed them. It was actually nice to listen to someone like Cato Rosier. He hadn't been insane. He had just been soulless. Harry doubted that the Dementor's Kiss would have touched him in the least. He would have sworn that the temperature of the room had dropped when Rosier had entered, and that wasn't just because of the young man's attitude. It probably didn't help that he looked cunningly like Tom Riddle had done when he was at Hogwarts. He had the same black hair and dark eyes and smirk that Harry had seen in the Chamber of Secrets. He had seen Ginny react to Rosier as well. Her face had drained of all colour and she had sat next to Charlie, shivering with fear and memory… That had been the last court session Ginny had attended. Dumbledore had also seemed quite affected by being confronted by a young man that looked so much like the student he had been fighting for forty years. He had stiffened in his seat, his eyes growing dimmer as Rosier continued to speak and a horrible look of... _something_... had crossed that friendly face, twisting it into something frightening and unfamiliar.

That had not been a good trial for anyone. Ginny and Harry and Dumbledore tormented by the look of the Death Eater. Snape, Blaise, Vince and Greg sickened by the mentions of Draco. After all, they had been his friends and family before the war. Harry had learned that Snape had adored his godson, that he was the only family Snape had had since his mother's death almost thirty years ago. It made Harry hurt for him. For all of them. Sometimes it had been very easy to forget that some people were fighting friends. But apart from Ginny, they all stayed strong and kept coming to the trials, just as determined as Harry to see justice done.

He cracked his neck again and looked up at the ceiling, trying to decide whether or not it was worth approaching one of the DEID members to see if they would get tomorrow off or not. He was tired, and it wasn't just from these cases. He had spent the first few months after the war dreaming of everything that could have gone wrong. That he hadn't saved anyone, that Voldemort had lived, that the Weasley's had all died in the raid on the Burrow, that Bill's son had been killed along with his mother, Fleur, that Dumbledore had been captured and all their secrets revealed, that Snape had been thrown to the wolves and Remus forced to eat him, that he hadn't escaped Voldemort's holding cells… there were thousands of fears that he had never acknowledged and they were all haunting his night time dreams. But they never touched him in here. He supposed that it was because whilst he had to listen to these horrible examples of human beings he was made very aware of the fact that they had won. That none of those things had happened. It probably didn't hurt that the place also reminded him of the Great Hall in Hogwarts.

When the Ministry had been overhauled it hadn't just been the departments that had undergone renovation. The building itself, mostly demolished throughout the war had been rebuilt and now the Wizengamot Chambers were actually at the very top of the building. It had been Hermione's idea, she believed that if the highest of wizarding courts wasn't hidden from the world, then it had to answer to it and therefore justice had to be served. Therefore it was now a large light wood panelled room rather than the stone chamber that had served before. Along three of the walls were raised tiers for the court audience to sit in, on the fourth was the seating for the Wizengamot, fifty chairs for those upstanding witches and wizards. In the centre of the vast floor were the dock and the seating for both the prosecution and defence to work from. The press were no longer allowed in the court. There was a court appointed liaison and he was the only one that was meant to talk to the press after each trial. During the trials he was heavily guarded and hardly left the Ministry, so he didn't have to talk to the gathered reporters. All wands were left at the door and Aurors guarded every entrance. The other miraculous difference was that it employed the same ceiling as the Great Hall. Well, not quite the same. It didn't show the daily weather, instead it always streamed a golden sunlight that changed according to the time. It was quite the feat of charms and actually alleviated some of the discomfort of the trials. The room was warm and cheery and spared some of the horror of the tales that were being told in it. Harry wasn't sure that the Death Eaters should be the first to benefit from this new room, this new justice and he sincerely hoped that they wouldn't stain the room forever with their hate and prejudice.

Seeing Amos Diggory heading to the exit, his dark green DEID robes billowing behind him, Harry decided that it _was_ worth asking, so he sprinted down the steps and across the court floor. He caught him as he was leaving the room.

"Mr Diggory!"

"Ah, Auror Potter, its good to see you." Amos held out a hand and Harry shook it gladly.

"Its Harry sir."

"And I have told you countless times that it is Amos." Cedric's father smiled at Harry and he was abruptly reminded of the grin that Cedric had flashed him as they raced towards the Triwizard Cup. His chest tightened and he remembered the very first victim of this last long war.

"Harry?"

"Sorry, sir… Amos" Amos smiled indulgently. "Cedric had your smile."

There was a minute where Harry regretted saying anything, but the broken look on Diggory's face melted in the sunlight and he smiled.

"Thank you Harry." Harry felt a squeeze on his shoulder. "It is always good to know that people remember his smile and not just his death. I always remember his smile."

"Me too sir."

The evening sunlight was waning in the chamber and most of the occupants had left. There were only five others in the Chamber besides him and Amos, and one of them was the care taker. That had also been a new scheme. After the invaluable assistance provided to the Order by Argus Filch and Arabella Figg, squibs were being welcomed into the Wizarding world. They were working in the Ministry as janitors and secretaries. They were shop assistants and bar tenders. They were working at St Mungos healing the 'muggle way'. There were even rumours that Dumbledore was going to employ more squibs at Hogwarts – even to teach. It was a revolution for the wizarding world.

"What can I do for you Harry?" Diggory's quiet voice jolted Harry back into the present.

"Sorry. Umm, well…" He scratched the back of his neck suddenly uncomfortable with his question. No one was forcing him to be present at every trial – he had chosen to, just like Snape and Lupin and Dumbledore. He wanted to make sure that it was really over. That no one got off as they did before by claiming they had been under the Imperius curse.

"Harry?"

"I was just wondering whether the Minister had decided to try the next case tomorrow or whether there was going to be a day's break?"

Amos grinned knowingly. "Tired of the days of tedium and hard seats Harry?"

"A little." The admittance was sheepish and accompanied by a grin that Hermione said reminded her of the eleven year old she had come to love.

"You Aurors, all the same… only ever happy when you're chasing down dark wizards."

"So I've been told sir, so I've been told."

"Unfortunately Harry, the Minister has decided that she wants all the trials over by the end of July. We want to declare August 1st a national holiday and the real end to the war and what with Hogwarts due to open in September, the Ministry wants all the war and Death Eaters squared away. That means we're picking up the pace I'm afraid."

"So… trial tomorrow then."

"Yes Harry, there is another starting tomorrow." He paused and looked down at the file in his hand. "Hmm… tomorrow… that should be Malfoy, D. then. Says here he is your age – did you know him?"

Harry didn't know why the fact that tomorrow being Draco Malfoy's trial hit him like a blow to the gut but it did. He knew that Malfoy had been arrested; he had been there the night that he had been brought in. but still, the immediate knowledge that Draco Malfoy, bully, brigand and all round bastard, was about to go on trial for his life hit home like a volley of bludgers.

"Yes, my year at Hogwarts. Slytherin. Didn't get on with him."

"I believe I heard that somewhere." Amos grinned. It was well known that Harry and Draco Malfoy had been the most bitter rivals that Hogwarts had ever seen. Some had said that they were reliving the Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry all over again.

"Loved flying against him though."

"Really?" Amos looked very interested in the fact that he had been Harry's rival seeker.

"Yeah… he was the best in the school. Even managed to beat me in our final year." Harry groaned suddenly. "I can't believe he was idiot enough to get involved in this. I mean, he was a nasty piece of work at school, but he was smart."

"Hmm… that's what Blaise said too." At Harry's querying look he continued. "Blaise said that he and Malfoy were close at school. He doubted that Draco confided in anyone but he thinks that he was the closest to the boy. He said that Malfoy was pure-blood prejudice to the core but he wasn't ever cruel."

Harry scoffed at that. He could remember several occasions were Malfoy had been cruel.

"No Harry, Blaise said he was childish and petty but he wasn't Death Eater cruel. He didn't have that in him."

"But we're still trying him."

"Ah, yes well… that's the thing… Tomorrow should prove more interesting than these other trials." Diggory was smiling at him again and Harry was intrigued. He tilted his head, folded his arms and indicated that he wanted to hear more.

"Well, it seems that in all of the interviews we have done and all the evidence that has been turned up, the real question is what was Draco Malfoy doing in the war? We don't know Harry. We don't know anything he did in the war, we suspect but we have no proof. Whatever he did, he only ever reported to Voldemort."

Harry was suddenly excited and worried.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, quite. Draco Malfoy was working throughout the war on something that only Voldemort knew about." Amos glanced about. The Chamber was empty now. Everyone had gone for the day, even the sun was fading. "There are some people who believe – on both sides – that Voldemort had a contingency plan. That he had something prepared in case he lost. The other Death Eaters heard rumours but no-one knows."

"And you think Draco does."

"We do."

"Why? Why only him?"

"Because he had to be doing something in the war. Blaise said that he knew curses at school that he had to have learnt from his father. That he was the best dueller in Slytherin, that he bested many of the older years many times over. Why would Voldemort leave someone like that on the sidelines?"

"He wouldn't." Harry had to admit that what Diggory was saying made sense. Voldemort needed all of his soldiers out there. Harry had fought Draco before and he hated to admit but Draco was fast and accurate. He had been away from the battles on purpose.

Somewhere deep in the Ministry a bell tolled six.

"Oh, my! Mrs Diggory will be wondering where I am at. Well good night Harry. See you tomorrow?"

"Yes sir."

"Amos, Harry."

"See you tomorrow, Amos."

He watched as the older man left the room, waving at him before he exited completely and then he lost himself in his thoughts. Specifically those of Draco Malfoy.

Blaise had been right, Malfoy was a talented wizard. It made no sense that he hadn't fought in the war. He could remember numerable times when Draco had gotten spells right before Hermione even. He had been the smartest wizard in the school and he had trumped Hermione in Arithmancy, Potions and Herbology in their NEWTS. He had achieved a great deal at Hogwarts and then he had thrown it all away by joining Voldemort. Harry had hoped in their final years that Malfoy had seen the light, so to speak. He had been quieter, he hadn't insulted Hermione or picked on them in Potions. He had played clean Quidditch and spent more time in the library than haranguing the lower years. He hoped that Malfoy had changed.

And then he had joined Voldemort.

The last time Harry had seen Malfoy had been at the Leaver's Feast, he hadn't been on the Hogwart's Express, he had apparently apparated from Hogsmeade to a Port Key station somewhere in Scotland. His hair had been short but no longer gelled back, his silver eyes had been ice and his face had been held in an impenetrable mask. Seeing him in January had therefore been a shock. Malfoy's hair was longer, his face softer and warmer, as if the silver ice had melted and been replaced by liquid mercury and moonlight. If Harry hadn't known who he was he'd have been tempted by him. Draco was dangerously attractive now, no longer odd angles and razor-sharp lines, but sculptured features in white marble and silky silver hair to frame it all. He looked delicate, his frame much smaller and slighter than the Aurors that held him. He was fey like now, and very alluring.

Harry shook his head free of _those_ types of thoughts. During the war he had fooled around quite a bit. He had broken up with Ginny because both of them felt that they were too young for such a commitment during war. Harry hadn't mentioned the fact that being with him during the war would have been the equivalent of having a target painted over her heart. So they had agreed to see where they were when the war ended. That meant that Harry had sought company throughout the war. Mainly though he had sought out men as his bedmates, feeling as though sleeping with women was cheating on Ginny, despite the fact that they were no longer together. He had had several partners over the years and the only one that affected him in the slightest had been Zach Smith… They had spent quite a bit of time together in the war, Zach had been stationed at Grimmauld Place, spending all his time brewing healing potions in the basement with Greg Goyle (and hadn't he, Crabbe and Zabini been shock additions to their side?) There had been many times when he had crawled into Zach's bed after a bad raid, seeking warmth and shelter and touch. Hot wet kisses and whispers across skin had been exchanged in the darkness of one of the many bedrooms. It had been the sweetest rapture in the darkest of times and something Harry had been profoundly grateful for. He had needed Zach and those stolen night-time touches just to get him through some of the days. But then Zach had been captured and tortured to death. The Healers had said that it was repeated crucio that had caused his death.

And Harry had mourned him.

He remembered seeing Zach's parents at the funeral, his mother a small blonde woman hiding her tears under a black veil, gripping her husband tightly. He hadn't been able to approach them, the guilt too much to let him. He had cried too, as Zach's coffin had been lowered into the ground. Mourning a loyal and caring friend and lover and a dedicated Order member. Grimmauld had been much quieter after his death and Harry hadn't taken a lover again for over a year. He knew Zach hadn't died because he was Harry's sometime lover, but he had still been another person close to Harry that the war had killed.

He rubbed his eyes, tears stinging slightly and refused to cry. What he needed was a good night's sleep. Perhaps a bath to ease out his seat-sore muscles. And then he had to get ready to do it all again tomorrow; and tomorrow was going to be odd. He had known of or seen many of the people who had been tried before, but Malfoy was the first he had a real history with. He was the only one Harry had good memories of. Flying against Draco had been one of the only pleasures in Harry's life after Sirius' death. He couldn't help the fact that he wasn't looking forward to this trial.

But he was going to attend. He owed it to his one time rival.

And a part of him wanted to see Draco Malfoy get everything that he deserved. Justice would be served and Malfoy would go to the stake, along with Pettigrew and Rosier, Jungson, Rookwood, Alecto, Mulciber, and of course, Lucius Malfoy. All of them would burn and the wizard world would leave their ashes behind.

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Severus Snape stood in front of the floor length mirror that graced his dressing room. Finally, after so many years he had been able to return to the familial home of the Prince family which he had inherited from his mother. Hogwarts was still closed, would be for months, but he had no doubt that he would be moving back there in the autumn, so he was determined to enjoy the little comforts of this more than modest abode. He wasn't quite sure why he was making such an effort today; he was usually less than concerned with his appearance. He had few pleasures in life, potions was really the only passion he had and mixing ingredients that were, more often than not, caustic could be very messy. Thus clothing wasn't really his forte. He was also quite aware that most people (and quite definitely all students) believed that he had no knowledge of personal hygiene at all. That wasn't strictly the case. It was more the fact that potion vapours played havoc with one's hair, skin and nails – either making them brittle or leaving a fine layer of grease that was near to impossible to remove. There were, naturally, soaps and tonics that eased the symptoms but after playing with such substances for over thirty years, the only way to reduce the affects was to cut off all of one's hair and to use a potion that was overly expensive and its ingredients a tightly keep secret.

He had had a bottle of "Miyu Satome's Catholicon" for years. He had never dared to use it though. At thirty-five galleons for 175ml, it was one of the most expensive beauty products out there. He had not bought it for himself of course. It was far out of his price range. He may have been a world-renowned potions master, but he didn't make all that much money. He would also never have been seen dead in Glamour Glade, just past Knockturn Alley. But he had once had a student who would. A student who had spent nearly as much time over a cauldron as he did. A student who always looked his best. And so he had fished the bottle out of his portable potions tote and used it that morning.

The difference was amazing and well worth the two galleons worth that he had added to his bath water and used this morning. His hair, which he had cut just after the war, now hung to his ears but rather than falling in unhealthy lank and greasy clumps, it was now fine and shiny. There was a slight wave to the oil free strands and each lock was separate from its neighbours. He could now run his fingers through it without snagging a knot or feeling the potion remnants as he had before. His skin was no longer that sallow yellow, with pores that could be seen in Hogsmeade. Instead it was leaning to a light olive, the wrinkles eased and he looked at least ten years longer. His obsidian eyes now glowed healthily against his skin rather than sucked the life out of it. His nails were longer, no longer split and the cuticles had receded. His hands were smooth, all stains and scars erased and they now seemed to have an aristocratic elegances they had never had before. 10 ml and he looked a new person.

But, if he had taken all that effort to break into the bottle that had been left for him after the 1998 class had graduated, an emerald green ribbon tied to its neck and a set of silver initials threaded into the corner of the silk, he might as well dress the part too. So he had spent the past hour exploring his large wardrobe for something suitable. Colour choice was easy – black was a staple, and now with the healthy blue black tint to his hair, he doubted that the black would seem anywhere near as severe or scary as it had for the past twenty plus years. Eventually, he had chosen a set of moderately formal dress robes with a high mandarin collar, slightly flared cuffs which he donned over a high necked white cotton shirt. The robe only came to mid calf – as it was meant to – and so he had picked some fine black linen trousers. It was not a traditional wizarding fashion, but it was an apothecary fashion that had held for the past five hundred years.

He thought that it was a suitable testament for today.

The only thing that marred the new, fashionable look, he thought was the unhappy face that stared out of the looking glass back at him.

"_You don't want to go._"

His reflection had taken on a supercilious air but he knew that his own expression hadn't changed in the slightest.

"Of course I don't want to go. He was…" Snape sighed. It was an internal debate that he had had with himself for years. Caring little for his freshly coiffed state he roughly ran his fingers through his hair, appreciating the bite of pain as wisps were caught and pulled from his scalp.

"This is my fault."

"_That's rather arrogant don't you think?_"

The reflection was purposefully bating him, in a way that was reminiscent of both Albus and… Draco. Two people who had brought so much into his life, both of them injecting sparks of humour and warmth – things he had never felt before. Both were (or had been in the case of Draco) friends. Albus with his kind words of wisdom and support and tireless hope and love; and then Draco, caustic and arrogant and much too like a volatile potion but in his own way kind and insightful and very wise for one so young. And Snape had failed him.

"You know it's not arrogance. It's the truth."

His voice was tired, hollow. It was the one regret he held from the war. He had saved Potter's life countless times and he didn't even like the boy. But Draco, a young man he would have killed to call his son, Draco he had been unable to save. Worse. Draco he hadn't tried to save.

The mirror sneered.

"_Ah, yes, of course. You left him there purposely. You marched him to Voldemort, held out his arm helped the Dark Lord brand his skin. You forced him to spend day after day working with and for the worst Dark Lord ever known to wizarding kind._" The mirror paused in its derisive dialogue. "_You know, managing to do all that makes you quite powerful. I am impressed._"

Snape's expression shifted and he glared at the glass. It didn't shut up though.

"_I mean he was the Malfoy heir. Years of training in manipulation and arrogance. Son of Lucius Malfoy, who had he dared to try, we both know could have run circles around Voldemort. Son of the most powerful of Death Eaters and one of the most politically pow-_"

"I know that! Merlin I know that! I know what Lucius was – I spent far too long with him to know otherwise! And I know that I didn't march Draco to the Dark Lord! You are being deliberately obtuse and you know it!"

The mirror nodded and looked sad. It didn't really have emotions but it could feel the hurt pouring off the man who it reflected. It felt the maelstrom of guilt and anger and worry and despair. And for the first time in its existence, it didn't comment on what it saw. It waited, willing to listen.

"I could have saved him you know. I know that Albus doesn't think that I could and that everyone says that Draco was always going to be a Death Eater. But, they didn't see him. I wasn't blind, I heard 'mud-blood' and speeches on blood-purity fall from his mouth, but they were so rehearsed. They weren't Draco's words – they were Lucius'. He aped his father too much."

"_He loved his father._"

"HE DIDN'T KNOW HIS FATHER! He thought that the sun shone from Lucius Malfoy because that was what he was taught to think. He didn't have a father and Narcissa was hardly a mother. More concerned with her standing in society than what was best for her son. Draco wasn't a son to them, he was a tool."

"_Are you sure?_"

"I… he… what chance did he have in that world? He was groomed from birth to be the perfect Death Eater, nothing would have changed that."

"_Nothing but you?_"

Snape smiled, he remembered a time when he had Draco eating out of the palm of his hand. When Draco's grey eyes looked upon him as if he were a god and the name Lucius Malfoy was nothing but a footnote.

"Sixth year at Hogwarts. Lucius wasn't around then – still in prison. Draco spent hours in my quarters or office; he was avoiding his year mates. And I think that he was avoiding Potter too… He ranted that he wanted the bespectacled freak dead at least three times a week. I think he feared that he would try to do it. It was the perfect time. And I so dearly wanted to tell him."

"_Why was it the perfect time? Because Lucius wasn't there or because he was avoiding Potter?_"

The mirror was adept at playing Devil's Advocate. It was the reason it had been made. If you looked into the mirror perfectly content with your appearance then there was no way that the mirror should be able to sway you. If you weren't sure though… If you weren't sure then the mirror would circle, like a vulture with a corpse, and would slowly tear you apart.

"No… he was questioning. He wanted to know why, if Voldemort was so great, why he hadn't released his father. He wanted to know what Voldemort thought he was doing, allowing the Ministry so much control, allowing them to keep Lucius Malfoy in prison. He had doubts that year. He had questions. And I could have…"

"_Manipulated him?_"

The smirk on the mirror's face was audible.

"No, not manipulate him. I could have told him the truth though. Told him that Voldemort cared nothing for his followers. That he was going to let Lucius rot in Azkaban until he needed him. That Voldemort would be quite happy to let Lucius die in there if it served his person."

"_And in doing so you would have revealed your own secrets. Your own allegiances._"

Snape sighed.

"That's what Albus said."

It had been what Dumbledore had said when he had approached the older man about it. He had told him that Draco was opening up to him, that Draco was questioning Voldemort, that there was a chance that they could break the notions that Draco had had drummed into him since birth. The imprisonment of Lucius had made a rather large dint in Draco's armour. His father had been feared and had been Draco's shield from the world. But now that shield was far from his reach and he was vulnerable. The mirror was right – it would have been manipulation, but it would have brought the boy on to their side. He would have gladly told Draco everything he knew about the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord and absolutely shattered the prejudices that Draco held. He would have torn the foundations of Draco's world and ultimately kept the boy safe and away from Voldemort and the Death Eaters. But Dumbledore had not allowed him to do anything other than listen to the boy. He had maintained that this war had no place for people who had to be coerced onto their side. If Draco had to be talked round then he would never be truly loyal. Dumbledore and he had talked and argued for hours, about how Draco's only allegiance was to Lucius, how he was a parrot for his father because he believed it. But in the end it all came down to the fact that Snape was too valuable to the war to risk over one boy. Dumbledore had promised that if he saw a change in Draco that indicated he could indeed be reached then he would allow Snape to try.

He never did.

And Snape never went against Dumbledore. He put his position as spy above his want to save Draco, and now he was dressing to go and watch the boy be tried before sending to the stake.

And he hated himself.

He clearly recalled the very last time he had seen Draco. August 6th 2001. Fenrir had managed to sniff him out as the spy in their midst and he had been hauled in front of Voldemort and all of the Death Eaters had congregated in one of the many vast Malfoy estates. He believed that it had been the one at St Ives; he had been to nearly all the others. Besides, this one had that southern feel and there were only four Malfoy properties in the south. And he had been to two of them. The fact that the meeting had been held in the gardens had indicated to him that his prison and soon to be execution site wasn't the London town house. For the first time in his life as a spy, he had felt no fear in facing Voldemort. If he was honest he had been both relieved and a little smug. Smug that he had managed to fool this supposed 'omniscient' and 'omnipotent' wizard for so long. Relieved that it was finally over.

He had been tired. So very tired. He doubted that there was anyone else in the war that was at that point as tired as he was. His mind hurt from the eternal shields that it had to support. His body ached with the echoes of crucios for failed service and lack of knowledge. He had done everything that Albus had asked of him, and he had been ready to face his death for the first time. In the three years of open war and the seven years of protecting Potter before that, in that decade, he felt that he had somehow not repaid his debts to the world, but he had shown his want for redemption. He had killed and he would forever be stained with that spilt blood, he would never be able to reset the scales, but his conscience was clear for the first time and he was calm.

It was odd that. He had been at the feet of the worst creature humanity had ever created and he had felt no fear. He had simply felt a warmth of calm wash over him, a warmth that reminded him of inhaling amortentia and the silvery glow it seemed to have. He didn't know where it came from but he had known that no matter what Voldemort threw at him, everything would be ok...

"_Sseverus. I am most disappointed in you Severuss."_

_He was not meant to answer. He couldn't even raise his head, the weakness from the crucios he had undergone earlier. All he could do was kneel in front of Voldemort and listen. He could feel the eyes of the other Death Eaters as they bore into his skin. Over forty had gathered to watch the execution of the traitor, and that didn't include the pack that had convened to rip apart what remained of him._

"_Look at your Lord Sseverusss."_

_The hissing was stronger when Voldemort was angry, and despite the pain Severus raised his head. Not in an act of obedience but of defiance. He wasn't afraid of this mangled excuse for a human. The thing in front of him wasn't even whole anymore. Potter had destroyed four of the seven horcruxes. The snake, Voldemort and one other were all that was left in the world of the Great Dark Lord. So, he looked into those red eyes and he smiled._

"_You think thisss iss funny Ssseveruss. I gave you my mark and thisss iss how you repay me. Do you have anything to sssay in your defenssse?"_

_He had to think. He could say something witty and insulting and be dead before the words left his lips or he could stay silent and live a little longer._

_He glanced around the circle._

_Bellatrix, Narcissa, Rudolphus and his brother stood to the left of Voldemort. Pettigrew, Alecto and Amycus next to them. On the Dark Lord's right stood Lucius, Draco, Cato Rosier, Dolohov and Avery stood beside them. Snape knew that it was Mulciber and McNair holding him and Rookwood must be behind them closing the Inner Circle of Death Eaters. Outside of them were the others, all of them wearing masks – apart from Fenrir's pack, who were already salivating at the prospect of fresh meat. But he paid little attention to that._

_What had caught his attention though was Draco. He was standing close to Cato, allowing the arm that Cato had slung round his waist in an almost proprietary fashion (which it probably was, given the fact that Fenrir was present), his head tilted intimately towards the slightly older Death Eater. Draco was the anomaly of the group. He got away with everything. If he wanted to have such affection shown to him – even in meetings of great importance – Voldemort overlooked it. Indulging him almost, as if he was a doting grandfather and Draco the precocious brat of the family that they all adored. Snape couldn't understand it, had always wondered about it but this time it hurt. He had been close to the boy his entire life and Draco seemed so ambivalent towards his death. He leaned into Cato as if he was bored with the entire show, a small smile playing on his lips as he listened to Voldemort hiss at him and the low growling of the increasingly impatient wolves._

_It pierced his heart. The boy he had been willing to betray the Order to save didn't seem to care that he was about to lose his life, and the hurt gave way to anger as he answered Voldemort._

"_What do I have to say, my lord? Nothing. After all it is not my place to tell you that you are on the wrong side." He pushed on, ignoring the roar of silence from Rookwood. "After all, Potter defeated you when he was an infant. He thwarted you time and time again when he was an inexperienced and underage wizard. He is going to kill you. And then the entire wizarding world is going to dance on your grave." Snape ignored the increased murmuring and shouts of outrage. After all he only had this one shot to say exactly what he thought of the man he had been enslaved to for too long._

"_You are nothing to the wizarding world but a hypocrite that speaks of blood purity and tries to cover up his own mudblood heritage. They don't fear you – they laugh at you. They call you 'You-Know-Who' so they don't waste their breath on your pretentious name. And at the end of this war? They won't remember you. They won't remember any of you. They will just recall a group of foolishly arrogant wizards and insane witches that thought they could take on the most powerful wizards of our time."_

_There was pride in his voice and a smile on his lips._

"_And who might the mosst powerful wizardsss of our time be Ssseverusss?"_

_Snape grinned. For the first time in his life he understood Black and his unquenchable impudence. It was addictive._

"_Why Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore of course."_

_It was delivered as if Voldemort had asked him what colour the sky was, but there was an undercurrent of awe when he spoke of Dumbledore, an awe borne from years of loyal service and friendship._

"_Really. Crucio."_

_He had been expecting it and he laughed. It was an almost childish reaction to being told that you weren't the best at something and he found it inordinately funny that the feared Dark Lord was behaving like a juvenile._

_Dimly, over his own tortured laughter he heard loud crashing sounds and then the cracks of apparition and suddenly the fire in his nerves began to cool as the pain lessened. He was aware of the yelling of hexes and defences as the Death Eaters fought against their intruders. Soft hands turned him onto his back and he could see the warm brown eyes of Ginevra Weasley, one of the healers in the Order. _

_As battle raged around them she poured pain relieving draught after pepper-up potion down his throat and within minutes he was able to stand, one arm slung round her shoulder, the other clutching his ribs._

_He surveyed the scene, many Death Eaters were down, a few Order members and Aurors seemed hurt but nothing serious. Most though were watching Dumbledore and Voldemort duel in the centre of the orchard they had gathered in. But Snape wasn't watching the clash, he was watching Draco. _

_Draco, who still had that smug smile on his face._

_Draco who gave a mocking bow and salute to his former professor as all of the Death Eaters began to flee the scene._

_Draco, who had stood, all quicksilver and black in the moonlight, and then had been gone._

And that had been the last he had seen of the young man. Draco hadn't been present at any of the all-out battles. Either that or he had been well disguised. But Severus knew that he would never forget the pain of that night, and hurt that came with the realisation that Draco really was a Death Eater, and he was there of his own free will.

He had cried that night, for the first time since his mother's death. Everyone had assumed that the tears were nothing more than a reaction to the stress of being captured and of being a spy for so many years. He had been glad that Dumbledore and Lupin hadn't been at headquarters that night, they would have seen through him. Snape wasn't one to crack at near death, but he would have cracked over Draco, and he had been foolish enough to tell both of them that he thought the boy could be saved. They had disagreed. They had been right. And it had hurt more than anything ever had before.

So now, all he could do was prepare to go and watch as a boy he had doted on for his potion's abilities and enjoyed the company of over the seven years he spent at school and even the time he had spent with him in the Death Eater camps, where Draco was a breath of fresh air from talking of killing and cursing and torture.

But the boy he had loved was dead. Now, he had to watch the man the boy had become face his fate.

Taking his cloak from its hook, he left the bedroom ignoring the mirror as he passed on his way to the floo.

"_Perhaps Severus Snape, your heart for once should rule your head."_

The mirror smiled as its reflection faded from view, leaving an empty room and the distant shout of "The Leaky Cauldron".

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****Please review... pretty pretty pretty please... I want to know what you think, what you liked and what you believe you know!!! Please... I want to bounce in my seat! Also, it makes me write quicker!**


	3. And the Silent Leaves are Still

**a/n Sorry this hasn't been updated in so long... I had such a mental block with getting it to flow and am ashamed to admit that I had to give up for a little while... But I have tackled and defeated it and should be able to get back on track with this whole fic now!**

**Thanks for any reviews that you posted and please if you like or just want to con-crit, hit that shiny little grey button at the bottom of the page!**

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**_And the Silent Leaves are Still..._**

The Muggles had a saying – if there was a nuclear disaster, the only thing to survive it would be the cockroaches. Now, Draco wasn't sure that he knew what a nuclear disaster was, and he _definitely_ didn't know any cockroaches, but he thought that he understood the imagery. He was quite sure that he had discovered something with a greater survival capacity, and in the opinions of many _worse,_ than cockroaches: the Halfbloods and the Mudbloods. And Draco was staring at the evidence of this fact: Diagon Alley.

During the war, Diagon Alley and Hogwarts were the two main targets of the Death Eaters. They had managed to force the school to close its doors to students, but it had still stood strong and been the place that the masses of the Light retreated to when needed. It had also been the sight of the Final Battle, and though Draco hadn't been there to witness it, he assumed that it – like the Wizards it had protected – still stood despite the force that had opposed it.

But Diagon Alley was right there before his eyes, parts of it gleaming in the dawn light, others hiding in the shadows of smoke and spell damage, mercifully covered by the grey of the morning. He had no doubt though that they would be worn as scars of honour when the light broke through and showed the marred buildings to the world. From his seat high above the world, Draco could clearly see the damage that the war had wrought, and had he not been previously aware of it, he might have been surprised. Quality Quidditch, Madam Malkins, Flourish & Blotts: all gone, replaced by such atrocities as Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, Lavenders Robes and The Emporium (a generic store that had obviously been shipped from _America_ of all indignities). Naturally, Gringotts stood there gleaming in the pre-dawn light, not a mark on its white marble shell. Draco hadn't expected there to be. Goblins were a race to be respected and feared in equal measure, and not even Voldemort was powerful or arrogant enough to attack them on their own territory. Who knew what secret securities lurked in the hallowed caves and tunnels beneath the bank just waiting to be released?

Ollivander's and The Leaky Cauldron also stood as good as new in the fresh morning. Ollivander's was a respected tradition within the magical community, after all it was the place where every magical child in Britain bought their first wand in the week prior to their starting Hogwarts or some other educational establishment. The Ollivander family were Purebloods that had been making wands for centuries and their little shop had been in that very place since the beginning. It was perhaps the very first establishment on Diagon Alley and was definitely one of the most revered. Wands dating back to the very first Ollivander were possibly still on a shelf somewhere in the small building and for that very reason, for the very respect that such a thought demanded, Ollivander's had never been touched by the war.

After all, the Death Eaters were fighting to preserve the Old Ways of the magical world, and Ollivander's was a lasting symbol of the tradition and purity they were trying to protect.

The Leaky Cauldron was an entirely different matter.

The gateway to the Muggle world that had let the dirtied children and families entire their beloved realm was naturally repulsive to the Death Eaters. Every raid it had been destroyed – even if it wasn't a predetermined target – and every morning after tens to hundreds of Wizards would turn up to repair the damage. They came even if all they could help with was tea and bacon sandwiches. The pub became a bone of contention between the two sides, the harder the Death Eaters tried to destroy it, the harder the Light fought to repair and ward it. It was as much a symbol of the war as Malfoy Manor, Hogwarts or the Riddle House was. He imagined that those damnably predictable and emotionally driven Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors probably saw it as a testament to their triumph. They were sentimental like that.

Slowly the sun began to rise; its warm light tripping across the roof tops and trickling down into the small lanes and avenues that branched off from the Alley. It was the first time that he had seen the sun rise in six months. No, strike that. It was the first time that Draco had seen the _sun_ in six months and it was both joyous and mournful to behold.

When the Aurors had brought him to the room after they had forced him to bathe and cut and neatened his hair (after all, it wouldn't do for the courts to see their prisoners as malnourished or ill kempt), it had already been dark, the moon was up and Draco had been exhausted. He had spent months in a cell that was barely big enough to contain the sleeping mat, a discreet hole in the corner, bucket of fresh water and himself. He had hardly had the room to stretch and the Aurors had expected him to climb what had seemed like an endless spiral of stairs that just went up and up and up until he was out of breath, his lungs screaming his chest throbbing and his heart pounding wildly. Sweat had been dripping down his face and his black t-shirt stuck to his shoulder blades and the small of his back. He had practically collapsed onto the small bed, relieved to be at the end of his Herculean trial, curled up into a ball and fallen straight to sleep. He had barely had the energy to note the lift at the end of the corridor, or the smug smile on the faces of the Aurors as they saw him spy it. Yet from somewhere he had managed to dreg enough energy to react – and not in the way they had expected.

He had laughed. For the first time in forever a true laugh had escaped his lips. His laughter doubled as he caught the expressions of the Aurors as they led him to his room. He wasn't meant to find the cruelty of the stairs funny, but he just couldn't help it. It was just too much like the type of malicious little prank that he would have pulled whilst at school, betraying everything that his badges of Head Boy and Prefect stood for. He would have still been shaking with laughter when they had locked him in his room if it weren't for the absolute exhaustion that overwhelmed him with the sight of a proper bed. No matter how he had tried, a sleeping mat and sitting doing _nothing_ all day long was not conducive to sleep.

But at least he had time to think.

In fact he had done little else. He had lost himself in memories of times gone by and he couldn't help but wonder how different it could all have been if he had made different choices. But all those thoughts were now banished from his head as he watched the sun rise and he fought valiantly to repress the memory of the last time he had seen the sun…

_Unable to sleep anymore, especially with the sunlight that streamed through the windows and stained the white walls of his bedroom bloody, Draco stealthily disentangled himself from Cato's warm limbs and rolled from the bed. He snatched up the satin quilted comforter from where it had been kicked during the previous evening's activities and wrapped it round his naked form. His bare feet sunk into the thick Persian carpet as he padded silently to the huge bay window. He had hated that window when he was little, the morning sun had always woken him up so early, and there had been many a time he had pestered his parents for a curtained four poster like he had in the Slytherin dormitories. His father had refused to entertain such a plebeian notion, adamant that a Malfoy would never been seen having such a contraption in the Manor. After all, it was only the distasteful nouveau-riche that felt such contraptions were a sign of power and wealth. State beds were much more refined and tasteful. _

_Especially ones that were decked with a baldachin of deep purple and black – just two of the colours on the Malfoy family crest._

_He couldn't help but shiver as he looked out upon the wintry wonderland that was before his window. His mother, and generations of Malfoy matriarchs before her, had spent hours of their lives in the pursuit of making the Manor gardens an unparalleled spectacle of floral decadence – whether __it was the height of summer or the depths of winter. Well, his mother had until her death at the hand of Ronald Weasley earlier in the year. Looking out on the garden now though, he realised how much work she had done, and how this garden would always live as a testament to the Malfoy women, often viewed by the public as simpering subservient wives to their powerful husbands; nothing more than an attractive adornment to be worn out at parties and other social functions. He doubted that the view was still held now, especially after the way his mother had gone down fighting, two Aurors having to attack at the same time before the Weasel got a decent shot at her. _

_They had obviously forgotten that she had been a Black long before she was ever a Malfoy._

_They hadn't been able to bring her body home with them after that battle. Only four of the nine that went out on Narcissa Malfoy's raid of a small hamlet that was supposedly the last known hiding spot of Potter returned – and none of them were unscathed. Only one of them lived after they had reported to Lucius on the death of his beloved wife. He loved __Narcissa;__ Draco had never doubted that about his father. Unfortunately, Lucius Malfoy – and his wife like him – was unable to love someone in any other way than that of a possession. Naturally, given his status as Heir, Draco was the chief jewel in the Malfoy treasure trove. Yet, he was still regarded as an uncut diamond – naturally beautiful and precious simply because of what it was, but in need of refinement and redefinition to make it the flawless and exquisite piece that was a __collector's__ wet dream. According to his father, he wasn't quite there yet. Narcissa though had been. She had been the __perfect __addition to the Malfoy collection. _

_An icy jewel that set off the collection flawlessly._

_That wasn't to say that she was the vapid shell most society wives were. __Quite the contrary in fact.__ Like generations of Malfoy women before her Narcissa was a talented woman. In each generation there were numerable young pureblood witches that grew up dreaming of holding the title __of Lady__ Malfoy, but only one woman would get that honour. The Malfoys had the entire magical world to choose from and there wasn't a family that wouldn't sacrifice their firstborn to be considered for the honour, but Malfoys only selected the very best. And Narcissa Persephone Black had been the pinnacle of young society ladies. She had been beautiful to be certain, but more importantly, she had been intelligent. Fluent in French and Italian, knowledgeable in the running of households and estates, a talente__d potions maker and __herbologis__t__ – a talented witch to say the least. She had been witty and quick thinking, able to put one at ease with a gentle word and smile and set them on edge with no more than a look. She knew how society worked and knew how to manipulate it. She was discreet and kept away from the press, not a glory __hound as many young socialites could be. She was tactful and always kept up to date on both gossip and fact, and knew what words could easily diffuse a tense situation. She was the very model of a young noble woman and the Malfoy's couldn't have asked for more._

_Even the fact that he__r__ delicate frame only allowed her to birth one child didn't matter. She gave the family the son they needed and served it honourably as a wife and mother. Whether Lucius had loved her when she was Narcissa Black didn't matter, as he loved Narcissa Malfoy and had been devastated by her death. Angered to the point of murder when he had learned that a blood-traitor of a Weasley had struck his wife down with a cowardly shot when she__ was fighting two Aurors, alone,__h__is rage had ripped through three __of the four Death Eaters__, scattering their ashes to the four winds before collapsing behind his desk._

_Draco on the other hand had sought out comfort in Cato's arms allowing him to hold him, kiss him and stroke him to pleasure as he silently mourned the death of the only mother he had ever known._

_But now wasn't the time for such maudlin thoughts. Tonight was the dawning of a new era, an era that he had helped to shape from the shadows, and once it was built, then there would be time for grief and __remembrance_

_Now, such thoughts would only distract him from his purpose and get him killed. And he rather liked his life as it was, thank you very much._

_Instead, he turned his attention to the __gardens that were now lit up by the morning sun. __Everywhere he looked evergreens, frosted in silver, __were__ standing proud and still in the quiet morning.__ They weren't mere bushes or trees though, they were living sculptures, trimmed and clipped into perfect shapes and not a dead leaf in sight. Albino peacocks strutted across the vast lawn that used to hold summer balls. The lake's iced surface could just be seen in the distance, charmed mid-November to be perfect for skating and the Winter Ball in December. It was a winter wonderland of natural beauty that was spread out before him and despite the fact that war had meant much of it had been __neglected,__ to Draco it had never looked more beautiful._

_He shivered as warm arms wrapped around him and he was forced to scoot forward as Cato slipped between him and the wall. _

_"Morning."_

_The word was soft, __unwilling to break the stillness of the morning. Draco didn't reply, just settled himself further back into the warm body, the hardness of muscle, bone and aroused flesh much more comfortable than the wall he had been leaning against._

_"You're awake early. You usually sleep until noon – unless Our Lord wants you."_

_"Hmm."_

_A nose nudged at his cheek._

_"What's wrong? __Ryu__?"_

_Thoughts of war and change flitted through his head and for a second he contemplated __speaking of death and destruction and how they were stood at the abyss of change. But something else caught his attention._

_"Why do you call me that?"_

_"It's the Japanese for dragon, Draco."_

_Draco smiled. "Is it, I didn't know that. __You didn't tell me you'd visited Japan."_

_Cato laughed, warm and rumbling against Draco's back. "We don't exactly talk much when we are alone my friend." His ear was caught between hard teeth and nipped. "But I don't mind if you want to forgo our prior activities to hear my life story."_

_Draco wriggled back, his arse teasing and flirting with Cato's straining flesh. "No, no. I like our arrangement just fine. It will do – for now at least."_

_His world upended and he was suddenly pushed down into the thick padding of the window seat and held ther__e by the strong body that cover__ed him. Cato looked down at him, predatorily amused, a black eyebrow cocked and a twisted smirk on his face._

_"For now?"_

_Draco smiled. Sharks teeth and canary feathers and totally unrepentant._

_"For now.__ I may find something much more amusing any minute."_

_"Really?"_

_"Really."_

_"I should spank you for that you little brat."_

_"__Oooh__… Would you? I'd like that." Draco all but purred the words and arched up into Cato, who laughed part amusement and part fond disbelief._

_"Are you sure you aren't an Incubus?"_

_"Pure blood Malfoy, thank you very much."_

_"But you're insatiable."_

_"And your stamina is lacking – but you don't hear me bitching do you?"_

_"L__acking?" Cato ground his body down, forcing a gasp from Draco's throat. "I'll show you lacking you little slut."_

_Laughing he reached down and pulled Draco up from the seat, gathering him close for a brutal kiss, a force of passion and lust, before all but throwing him onto the huge bed._

_"Prepare, Young Lord Malfoy, for the ride of your life."_

_Idly he wondered what they would be doing tomorrow morning before giving up and spreading himself wide for Cato to take._

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_It was fast, brutally fast.__ Teeth, lips and tongue moved over the porcelain skin, the tawnier skin a beautiful contrast as limbs twined and wrapped around one another. Writhing and sweating and panting into one another's mouths and skin they came together like a hurricane, like a wave crashing against the cliffs at a high and violent tide. Magic spiralled around them, dancing and weaving like the lights of the Northern __sky._

_It was forceful and violent and more primal than anything he had ever felt before in his life. He felt as if the world as he knew it, the world as he had known it was falling away from him fast and the __body that was rocking and thrashing against him so passionately was the only thing left that he had to cling to. There was __a desperation__ in their movements, a frantic need that was barely being contained. It was as if they were true lovers reuniting for a brief moment before losing one another to eternity._

_They clashed and kissed__ all hands, lips, tongue and teeth, rocking and rolling and crying. Tears and sweat and blood all split as they met with a force never before witness and n__o place was left untouched or un__loved._

_His hands roamed, desperate to touch, to feel, to memorise the muscles an__d skin that was available to him, because he knew that this would be the last time that he'd get the chance. The only time he'd get the chance and he wanted it. Oh sweet Circe, he'd never wanted anything more. There was no war or death or pain. There was no __Good__ or Evil, Dark or Light, there was just the two of them and the mattress beneath them and their clothes ripped and scattered over the floor._

_Whimpers, tiny wordless pleas for more or less but just and end to the torture and he pushed for more. His tongue dancing over small pebble nipples and skating down to thrust and penetrate that tight little belly button that was audacious enough to wink at him, mocking that he hadn't yet reached his goal. He thrust again, his hands skimming over strong thighs, urging them up and around him loving how they squeezed and strangled him. Loving the twists of strong male fingers running through his hair and pulling just so, __sparks shooting from his follicles to his groin as the locks were tugged and twisted. There would be a passionate bird's nest there later, but he didn't care, he was much t__o__o eager to reach his hot, turgid prize and bathe in the taste of salt and bitter cream._

_Another twist deserved the sharp nip that dented the skin and marked the white with the pink of broken blood vessels. He rather liked the effect. He nipped again, rewarded with a deep groan and more tugging and a barely there "__Pleeease__" breathed out into the humid air._

_Wriggling further down __he__ came upon his prize, swooping and capturing it with the __efficiency of a falcon. Salt exploded over his taste buds, so different from the sweetness of the sweat he had lapped at earlier and the weight of flesh in his mouth made him moan. Vibrations skipped up the cock he was mouthing and from above him came a tremulous wail, keening and rocki__ng and begging and needing more, needing anything that he could give. He loved it. The feeling of power over flesh was almost as heady as the orgasm that was building and thrumming away at the__base of his spine. _

_He removed his mouth, enduring the whine and his own pang of loss and wrapped a strong fist around the jutting organ, gripping it tightly and squeezing, enough to break through the haze of tortured passion. Bright liquid eyes looked up at him, shining with tears of lust and blinking with a shocked inability to understand where the pleasure had gone. The silver being eclipsed by black as he panted and twisted and begged, pushed beyond the known realms of pleasure. _

_Slowly, the delirious sight drifted __out of his view as his eyes fluttered closed and he lowered his mouth towards the pulsing erection he held…_

Green eyes snapped open as his orgasm was torn from him, and Harry Potter flopped back on to his bed, twitching like a beached fish as aftershocks racked his body. He had _never_ had a wet-dream that had forced him into an orgasm as powerful from his body. And given that he had been a teenage boy, trapped in a boarding school that didn't exactly condone sexual relations between students, _and on top of that_, being unwilling to hold down a real relationship for fear of a psychopathic murderer attacking his partnerthat was saying something. Grimacing, he glanced at the clock. It was only 6.56am and the trial didn't start until 9.30, which meant that he had to be there by quarter past at the latest. So now all he had to decide was whether he got up, had a leisurely shower and breakfast or did he ignore the sweat stained sheets and sticky boxers and roll back into slumber.

The decision wasn't that difficult.

Turning over, he pulled the duvet up over his head and burrowed himself into his pillow, welcoming the haze of slumber.

His eyes jerked open and he jack-knifed up in the bed, his dream burning itself onto his corneas. He had just had a wet-dream about a _man_.

Sure, Harry knew that he was bisexual (at the very least) but his sexual fantasies _always_ involved women. Always. There had never been a cock (besides his own of course) in his dreams and he had never jerked off to images of men. He had only fooled around with other lads during the war because that didn't feel like he was cheating on Ginny, after all she wasn't a man and surely it was worse if he found comfort and release in the arms of a body anatomically identical to hers. But Ginny had nothing in common with a man. She was soft and curved and perfumed. They were hard and angular and musky.

It _wasn't_ the same.

He could appreciate that men were attractive, in an abstract and purely aesthetic sense but he had never looked at a man and felt heat pool in his groin. Well, not unless he had already slept with them and even then, the heat had more to do with what they could do than with how they looked.

Maybe he really was gay… Or maybe he had just been without Ginny for far too long. That was more likely. The war had been over for months but he wasn't prepared to start anything until it was truly all put away and done with. Obviously, he was just frustrated – he hadn't had sex since things had started to come to a head in October. Everything had just been to frantic and frightening to even contemplate sex. He didn't even think that he had done more than morning wanks in all those months. And now his frustrated mind was obviously seeking out its own pleasure.

Feeling calmer after his reasoning he tried to turn back into his blankets and sleep. But it wasn't welcoming him anymore. Steeling his resolve he shook his head and groaned at the ugly feeling of peeling himself from the sheets, releasing a strong whiff of sex and sweat, he rose from the bed and stumbled to the shower. Turning the silver handles he watched as the strong spray hit the porcelain of his shower stall. When steam began to rise he slipped under the pounding water, and sighed… as soon as Malfoy's trial was over he was going to see Ginny and they were going to sort everything out.

The hot water sluiced down his body, flakes of dried semen disappearing down the drain but the tension his dream had caused – and the normal stress all of the trials brought – was still there. A tightness in his shoulders that he knew from experience wasn't going to go away. He turned the heat up and let out a light groan as it burned.

It was going to be a long day.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

The sun was high now, high enough that he could really see Diagon Alley as he looked out of the window. It shone off the buildings and leaving the burnt shells looking like nothing more than sunburnt huts under the summer sun. In the clear dawn, looking at the roof tops of the many shops and buildings that littered the Alley, one could almost believe that no war had really taken place out there. Whilst he had been locked away from the world, the world had kept on turning, growing, recovering. The old was gone now – a new age was quite clearly upon them – and nowhere was it more evident than Diagon Alley.

In many ways he felt very cheated. He had been visiting Diagon Alley since he was old enough to toddle down the street, numerous cushioning charms around him and a House Elf named Kipsy gripping the reins of his Little Wizard Harness. His peers were still being charioted around in their fashionable carriage prams, but as a Malfoy, Draco had to show that he was developing faster than the average child. Because he wasn't average, he was a Malfoy. Yet, despite that, despite the fact that Diagon Alley held the same sentimentality and centrality to his life as a wizard as it did for all other members of the world, he hadn't been part of the rebuild. Instead he had been stashed away out of sight, awaiting his fate, distanced from the very world that he had been trying to protect.

But he had more pressing things to worry about than the state of the new and _improved_ wizarding world.

Turning away from the window he walked back to his bed. Sitting himself in the centre he crossed his legs and let his arms fall to his sides. Meditation. It was sometimes the only way he functioned through the day. At one point, when Rudolphus had still been alive his head had constantly hurt from the sneak Legilimency attacks that he had fired at Draco. He had been angry at the fact that Draco had been handed an operation that had been his from the start simply because some things had not gone too well and Voldemort had been less than impressed. Desperate to find some slight of treachery in Draco's head he had attacked again and again until Draco had snapped had hexed him, viciously, in a meeting. He had been sent overseas after that but he hadn't given up until he had been stone cold. Back then Draco had needed the meditation to control and strengthen his Occlumency. Well… he needed the control desperately. Psimagicks needed an awful lot of control and if one didn't have that control everything could spiral out of control in the most spectacular of fashions. So he had practised his meditations desperately, whenever he had had a moment to spare he had meditated.

Now it was ritual.

He had spent hours in his cell meditating, exploring his mind from the calm and thinking over everything he had learnt. Improving his control. It was one of the reasons he was nowhere near succumbing to the madness of isolation as he imagined Rookwood to be. The other Death Eaters were simply not human enough to need the contact, and his father had been in Azkaban for two years. Six months in a small cell with no Dementors was like playing Quidditch with a slow flying snitch.

Besides, he knew that he would need to meditate to get through the trial. Veritaserum was hard on the mind as it forced it to reveal its truths and if one fought its effects, then one was bound to end up damaged. Even if you went with it and told the truth, it still damaged your mind simply because it was designed to. Poison still killed you even if you were already dying after all. He didn't want to end up with his mind destroyed through a potion when he had survived so many Legilimency tests of Voldemort's devising, and so he meditated. Slipping into the dream state so easily that it was like breathing.

He couldn't have been under for more than an hour when he heard the Aurors unlock his door. As he had already been served breakfast, he knew what they were here for, and it wasn't tea and cakes. He sighed, and brought himself out from under his self induced hypnosis. He stood, proud and undeterred as the two Aurors came forward and slid the magical cuffs over his wrists. They didn't bind his feet or legs, he needed to walk to the court room after all, and there was no way that he could escape now that the wards had been renewed and improved.

Silently, he was led from the room. Before he slipped through the door though he took once last glimpse of the world he had fought for. He smiled.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

At twenty five minutes past nine, Harry slipped into his seat in the court room. He had left his house in plenty of time but had gotten waylaid by reporters in the Atrium. Of course, they all knew that Draco Malfoy had been his childhood rival and they were gagging for just a titbit, a smidgen, a snatch, any little bit of information that they could print to say that Harry Potter was glad that his childhood rival was going to the stake.

But Harry hadn't been lying when he had spoken to Amos. He hadn't wanted any of this. If Harry had had his way then the war would have been nothing but a dual between himself and Voldemort and to the victor the spoils. If he had had his way then no one else would have been involved or hurt or killed. He wouldn't have had to watch children he grew up with die and he wouldn't have to be here now waiting for Draco Malfoy, the first wizard he had ever met, to spill all he knew before being condemned to death. Because that was what was going to happen. The one person who had hated him for simply being Harry and not the Boy Who Lived, the one person who had seen him as a human – flawed and foolish – was going to burn.

There was nothing that he could do about it, even if he had wanted to. And he didn't. Draco Malfoy had been a smart boy, there was no way he didn't know what he was signing up for when he took the mark, and if only for that Malfoy needed punishing.

But he said none of this to the press – who would crucify him just as soon as they had canonized him. Instead he gave them his usual (and sincere) spiel of how he was here to make sure that justice prevailed and that he took "absolutely no pleasure in seeing another wizard lose his life because of Voldemort." But despite giving them a statement, it still took him a good twenty minutes to get past them, because short of throwing a few hexes he wasn't getting past them easily.

So it was a frazzled Harry Potter that all but collapsed into his seat next to Remus. And then practically fell off said seat as he caught sight of Severus sitting on the other side of his pseudo-godfather.

"Did the same thing myself mate when I saw him earlier. Neville didn't even realise who it was!"

Harry turned to Ron, relieved that he hadn't been the only one shocked out of his seat by Snape's new appearance.

"What the hell happened to him?" He hissed to keep his voice down, the wizards of the DEID team were entering the court room and Minister Bones had taken her seat too.

"Dunno. Gotta say though I think it's scarier than the greasy vampire look he used to sport!"

"Why?"

"Cause now he looks human."

Harry covered a snort with his hand, but the low chuckle from Remus indicated their conversation had been overheard. Gulping, he glanced round the werewolf to look at the Potions Master. A hard glare met his gaze and he physically recoiled. Behind him he heard Ron gulp, groan and slump down in his chair.

"Good morning Mr Potter."

"Err… Good morning Professor Snape." That garnered a raised eyebrow. "Sir."

A wicked smirk appeared on Severus' lips. He may have looked human, but he was still as intimidating as ever. Harry was forced to turn away. Even fighting side by side with that man for ten years didn't give you immunity to a smirk of that much malignant intent. So he did the only thing he could, grit his teeth, stopped the whimper that threatened and looked around the court. Hermione was there, sitting in the seat to the left of the Minister, a pile of neat files on the desk in front of her and a selection of blank parchments and quills all ready for use. As Ron had already pointed out, Neville was already here. So were many other Gryffindors. Seamus, Colin Creevy, Katie Bell, Oliver Wood sitting with Fred and George. There were other students too. Susan Bones, Padma Patil, Romilda Vane, Roger Davis and Ernie Macmillian. He was sure that other students were dotted around the court too, but he couldn't be bothered to look – his gaze had been caught by something much more important. Crabbe and Goyle had come too. He hadn't really expected them too, after their reaction to the news of Draco's arrest. Greg had cried, so angry that his friend hadn't had the sense to get out of this. There had been hope that he had headed abroad rather than join the Light and Greg had clung fiercely to that hope. Only to have it dashed in the cruellest of ways. His eyes were slightly reddened even now and he looked nothing like the bully he had been at school. He hadn't for quite some time.

Vince looked solemn and still and his gaze was focused straight at the chair Draco would have to sit in for the next few days. He blinked and turned to Greg as the smaller man whispered in his ear and shook his head, his fists balling and his teeth clenching. Greg tugged at his sleeve, a pleading look on his face and Vince whispered back. Obviously it was cruel and harsh as Greg visibly recoiled. Harry made a mental note to hunt the lads down later and check on them.

Blaise looked remarkably calm considering that he was on the prosecution bench facing a one time friend. Then again, it was Arthur that was to be doing the questioning. Blaise was just there to point out what he missed and keep him on track.

Other Order and DEID members were scattered about and Harry couldn't help but feel that suddenly the trials had become much more personal. For a start, there was a look, a feverish gleam in the eyes of all the Weasleys at the prospect of the first Malfoy going down. He still remembered the rejoicing when Ron took Narcissa down. The butterbeer, firewhiskey and cheers had lasted long into the night. Then there was the cold look in Severus' eyes and the utter devastation in Greg and Vince's and Harry knew that this case wasn't going to help anyone. This one was going to cause real division in the Order.

"What's up mate?"

Harry shook his head and turned back to Ron. "Nothing. Just thinking about the trial."

"Ferret's finally getting what's coming to him."

Harry let the comment go. Ron couldn't be swayed when he was adamant about something and he had been looking forward to this for weeks. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Severus stiffen and Remus turn to him. He was interrupted though before he could find out what was wrong.

"The Wizengamot are called to the court!"

Minister Bones' voice, full of authority and solemnity rang out through the court room, cutting off conversations mid-sentence. On the court floor, Arthur and Blaise Zabini stood, along with the court recorder and the row of Aurors to welcome the presiding Wizengamot.

After the war the court chambers hadn't just been relocated but totally overhauled. The first matter of business was to remove any corruption that could occur. Thus the base of the Wizengamot was expanded. It now had a bank of a hundred and fifty wizards, witches and magical species from which to select a trial jury. Depending on the severity of the case, between three and twenty-one members were selected to sit in on the trial. To prevent any tampering, the Wizengamot sent out missives to fifty eligible members a week before the trial and then selected the appropriate number the morning of the trial. If you were a member of the Wizengamot you were excused from all jobs and appointments and you were expected to attend unless you had just been knocked down by the Knight Bus. In order to further prevent corruption, all members were assigned an anonymous code and it was the code that was selected and not a name. Nobody knew what the codes were – they were assigned magically by the same spell that selected the jury and even the members themselves didn't know what their number was. All they knew was that they were on the Wizengamot and were expected to serve on a panel at some point in the future.

Naturally, Harry, Dumbledore, Snape, Arthur Weasley, Remus, McGonagall and Hermione had all been offered seats, as each of them knew about the corruption of power and all had their own beliefs and wisdom to bring to the table. The Wizengamot was now a collective source of wisdom and knowledge responsible for protecting and guiding the wizarding world, _not_ punishing it. Azkabhan and death were to be the very last resort and only if the person on trial had no hope of redemption. It meant that the Death Eaters weren't guaranteed death but they were to be punished. All of them though had declined any invitation to try the Death Eaters, they were all far to close to the case hope to be impartial and so only those members who had seen no fighting and no immediate loss were asked to sit. There weren't many of them, but there were enough to handle the final cases.

One by one, the twenty one members filed in, their blue and gold robes bright and friendly and in immaculate order. Blue for truth and peace, gold for wisdom; these were the qualities the Wizengamot members were meant to have. Harry recognised several from other trials. There was a goblin named Stonevash and a Veela named Carlotta who was in her eighties and therefore not prone to distracting the court. Then there was a centaur named Normenian who was only asked to wear a sash rather than the formal robes like the other members. There were a couple of healers – Smethson and Diego who Harry had met during the war. There was Bartholomew Memms, Dickson Croup, Janetia Flores and Penelope Slate. The final member that Harry recognised was Arabella Figg, one of the squibs who had perhaps done the most for the war effort, even going so far as to make her own home a shelter for Order members caught out by Death Eaters. Whilst many had offered the exact same thing, Mrs Figg had no wards on her property to keep the Death Eaters out when she was home alone. She risked her life in ways that the magical community couldn't begin to thank her for. But if Harry had his way, they were sure as hell going to try.

"Where's Dumbledore?"

Remus' frantic whisper cut through his thoughts like Sectumsempra went through flesh and Harry craned his head round to see that Dumbledore was, as Remus pointed out, not there.

"He's not _here_?"

The disbelief in Ron's voice echoed Harry's own. Dumbledore had not missed a single trial and he hadn't even known all of the Death Eater's tried. But he had known Draco Malfoy and Dumbledore was not the type of man who would leave an ex-student of his to face his fate alone. Unlike all the others who had been at school with the boy, he would not have come to see vengeance, but justice and hopefully redemption. They were his only aims he had told Harry and Harry couldn't understand why he'd betray his own thoughts and feelings by not turning up.

"Maybe he was held up?" Harry offered and Remus accepted it with a brief – but terse – nod.

On his other side Severus grit his teeth to prevent himself calling Dumbledore on his failure. A small part of him, infinitesimally small but existent none the less, hoped that Dumbledore was feeling guilty and couldn't face this trial. He hoped it, because he didn't want to be facing this trial, and he might not have been had that man allowed him to talk to Draco. But the time for such recriminations was not now.

The Ministry bell tolled 9.30am and all of the doors of the Wizengamot chambers banged closed with the effect only heavy, solid wood can make when it collides with stone. All attention was now turned to the Minister as she rose from her chair.

"Who should this court recognise as its agents?"

Arthur and Blaise rose to their feet and Mr Weasley introduced the pair of them in response to the Minister's question.

"The Death Eater Investigation Department asks that you recognise myself, Arthur Ignatius Weasley, Head of said Department, and my assistant Blaise Leander Zabini as the court prosecutors for this case."

"Do you both understand the task you are undertaking?"

"Yes Minister Bones." The both replied, Arthur nodding his head emphatically. After all he couldn't wait to get hold of one of the Malfoys.

"And do you swear to Merlin, this court and the society that you represent, that you will carry out your duty with both honour and integrity? Ensuring that this trial is a fair representation of all of the evidence, so that the Wizengamot may come to a just and true conclusion?"

"We swear it, Minister."

A slight glow appeared around both Blaise and Mr Weasley for a moment as the pact was sealed before it faded from view. All eyes turned to the Wizengamot.

"Do you recognise these agents and their vows?" The Minister now questioned them,

"Aye." A wizard Harry had never met seemed to be the lead on this panel.

"Then, without anymore delay, Mr Weasley, will you please introduce the next case?"

The Minister and the rest of the court took their seats. Only Arthur remained standing, his dark green robes a rich emerald in the morning sunlight and contrasting brilliantly with his still vibrant, albeit thinned red hair.

"The next case to be tried by the Wizengamot is case file number MOMDE: DOM05061980." He paused and then looked to the doors that were immediately behind the Wizengamot. "The court calls, Draco Malfoy."

* * *

**Please... Review... Pretty Please?**


	4. Authors Note

A/N

Hi,

I don't know if anyone is actually reading this fic anymore but I thought that a courtesy notice would be nice.

I am going to continue the fic. I have recently been quite ill and naturally this fic fell by the wayside. However, although I am going to continue the fic, I will be doing so on my other ff account. So, if you see the story posted under the author - blackhemlock - please don't send any notes about plagarism because I don';t think you can plagiarise yourself. I am going to leave this fic here for a while as I go through it and refine what I have already written. When I post chapter four I will take the fic down from this user name.

Its a shame I can't find out how to delete the username as that is a period in my life I kinda want to forget - although I want to continue the fic.

Thanks...

PS - The fic will be known as **Trial: MoMDE: D0M05061980 **not Trial: MoMDE: DOM05061980 (the O in DOM is now a 0 (zero)) - trust me... it'll make sense later!


End file.
